


Free Time

by queuebird



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Break Up, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24463117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queuebird/pseuds/queuebird
Summary: “Hello,” Eames says.Arthur pushes past him into the flat. “I can’t tell if you’re deliberately hiding my shit or if you just constantly lose shit when I’m not around to pick everything up.”“Yes. It’s very sad, isn’t it?” Eames makes an appropriate sad face as he follows Arthur around their place.I miss you,he doesn’t say,I miss youandwhere did you go?andcome back to me,because Arthur would probably get mad at him.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 50





	Free Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cardist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardist/gifts).



> For our stripped & clock song drabble exchange! Thanks [Mark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardist/pseuds/cardist) for the excellent tunes!! and thanks [Nimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchpink) for the brilliant beta!
> 
> Title and premise from Ruel’s “[Free Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=putlGQlv_Qk).”

Eames sits and stares at the clock, eyes half-closed, watching the second hand tick its way around the face, over and over until his vision blurs over.

His phone rings out on the table.

He instantly snatches it up and holds it to his ear.

“Arthur,” he purrs. “I was just thinking of you.”

“Hey,” Arthur says. Distracted. It’s noisy in the background, like strong wind and a lot of people talking. “Listen, Eames---”

“Yes?”

“You know my Illinois sweatshirt?” Annoyed now. “Do you still have that?”

Eames looks down at his chest, emblazoned with a bold orange **ILLINOIS**.

“It might be somewhere,” Eames says. “I dunno.”

Arthur sighs. “I’ll come over and get it tonight,” and the call ends.

Eames tucks his hands in the sleeves of Arthur’s Illinois sweatshirt and smiles.

...

Eames fucks into Arthur _hard,_ and the table shakes.

“God--- _fuck._ Eames, we can’t keep doing this.” Arthur’s hands clutch at the far edge of the table, and Eames admires the flex of them. 

“What else am I supposed to do with my time?” Eames says, and pouts. 

“Don’t you have any,” Arthur starts, but Eames twists his hips a little and he goes, _“ugh.”_

Eames leans down and bites Arthur’s irresistible little earlobe, tugs at it, and Arthur sighs.

When they both come and Arthur’s pulling his trousers up and balling his sweatshirt under his arm, Eames goes, “It’s late.”

Arthur glances at Eames, a quick once-over. “Are you serious?”

Eames shrugs.

“Fine,” Arthur says after a pause. But he says it like a warning.

...

Arthur is gone like a shot in the morning, before Eames can even stare at his sleeping face and maybe sneak some kisses onto his cheek or steal more of his clothes.

Eames squints across the bed at his phone lying on the nightstand, considering, then turns over and goes back to sleep instead.

...

Eames goes out with Ariadne that weekend, ostensibly for drinks but also for Ariadne to, quote, “find some pretty things” for Eames because apparently he’s, quote, “so hung up over Arthur that it’s embarrassing, physically, like I can feel it in my chest.” Like it’s permanent this time.

Eames nurses a whiskey, half-listening to Ariadne chattering about her asshole manager, half-thinking about Arthur.

“How about him?” Ariadne says.

Eames blinks and focuses on her. She’s using her glass to gesture at a dark-skinned man with coiled hair sitting on the other end of the bar. “Oh, you were serious about that?” Eames asks.

Ariadne gives him an exasperated look. “Yes, I was serious about it!”

“You know, I’m tired,” Eames lies. “I think I’ll just go home.”

Ariadne rolls her eyes and shoves at his shoulder. “Just go---say hi, or something.”

“Would you look at that, he’s coming over.”

“Jesus, you’re lucky you’re hot,” Ariadne says.

“Hey,” the guy says, leaning along the bar next to Eames. He doesn’t look like Arthur at all.

“Hello,” Eames says.

Eames has to bow out when the guy holds Eames’s hip in a way that reminds Eames of Arthur and Eames starts thinking about their first picnic date and how Arthur’s eyes had scrunched up in the late afternoon sun.

The guy smiles at him, sort of, and Eames smiles back, sort of, and then Eames turns tail and runs.

...

“Hello,” Eames says.

Arthur pushes past him into the flat. “I can’t tell if you’re deliberately hiding my shit or if you just constantly lose shit when I’m not around to pick everything up.”

“Yes. It’s very sad, isn’t it?” Eames makes an appropriate sad face as he follows Arthur around their place. _I miss you,_ he doesn’t say, _I miss you_ and _where did you go?_ and _come back to me,_ because Arthur would probably get mad at him.

Arthur violently yanks open some drawers and cabinets. “Where the fuck is it?”

Eames shrugs. “The bedroom?” he hazards.

Arthur stalks into the bedroom and spots his backup phone charger, plugged into the outlet next to the nightstand, almost immediately. He yanks it out with a disgusted noise. “Jesus,” he says.

Eames hesitates in the doorway as Arthur wraps the charger cord around his knuckles briskly, then pulls it off his hand and rubber bands it. He looks up and narrows his eyes at Eames.

“Eames,” he says.

Eames doesn’t respond, but he thinks whatever’s showing on his face is enough.

“Eames, move,” Arthur says. There’s no heat behind it.

Eames approaches Arthur. Arthur backs up until he hits the wall, then he closes his eyes. Eames stands there for a moment, staring at Arthur’s face, the soft bend of his cupid’s bow, the dark fan of his eyelashes, the lines and curves Eames thought he knew so well. 

Eames leans forward and presses their lips together, and Arthur surges up against him, angry, biting. One of his hands comes up to the side of Eames’s face, and the other gropes at the front of Eames’s trousers roughly. Eames makes some sort of noise.

“We can’t do this anymore,” Arthur mumbles into Eames’s mouth, even as Eames is tugging at Arthur’s shirt.

“Mm-hmm,” Eames says. _I’m addicted to you,_ he doesn’t say.

...

Later, lying alone in the bed they used to share, Eames sees Arthur’s face again, behind his eyelids. His eyes closed before Eames kissed him, like he couldn’t stand seeing him.

Something aches distantly in Eames. He ignores it.

...

“Do you remember---” Arthur begins. His voice goes muffled briefly, then he comes back. “---Eames, that toy you bought Lizard that he was obsessed with? The squeaky fuzzy thing that was shaped like a blob. I’m at the pet store, I can’t find it.”

“Ermm.” Eames flops back on the bed and stares at the ceiling. “It was in a weird little corner, next to, like, the dog medicines.” He squints. “I’m not sure it was for cats, actually.” He pauses. “I think...you know, it might still be around here somewhere, you could…”

Arthur’s muttering under his breath, then he goes, “Ah! Found it.”

Eames says, “Ah. Good.” 

He goes quiet. The noise on Arthur’s end fades in and out, Arthur moving around, but he hasn’t hung up yet.

Eames inhales and presses the phone closer to his face. “How is he, by the way?”

A shuffle. “Mmm? What?” He’s not paying attention.

“Our dear Lizard.”

 _“My_ Lizard,” Arthur replies, “is overjoyed you’re not around to bother him anymore.”

Eames curls around the phone, as if he could crawl right in and wrap himself in Arthur’s voice and sleep in it. “Smashing,” he says.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”

“Must you?”

“Yes, I do have things to do after this.”

“What things then, darling?” Eames says, playful. “Work, at eight on a Friday evening? A concert? A game?”

“It’s a date, actually.”

Eames freezes.

“Also, we should stop fucking,” Arthur says, and hangs up.

...

“This is absurd. Who could he be dating?” Eames paces back and forth in the living room, phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder.

Ariadne makes an _I don’t know_ noise. “Some guy. I don’t, like, obsessively keep tabs on Arthur like you do.” She slurps her drink loudly. “Why are you both always coming to me with your problems?”

Eames stops pacing. “Yeah? What does he say to you?”

Ariadne scoffs. “None of your business.”

Eames sighs and slumps into the sofa.

“Eames,” Ariadne says, gentler, “you need to---go out, and see people, or something. You’re rotting there.”

“I’m fine,” Eames says, his hand over his eyes.

“I’m serious,” Ariadne says.

“I’m _fine,”_ Eames insists.

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

...

Arthur calls.

“Darling,” Eames says.

“Hi, Eames,” Arthur says. Calm. “I have a box of your stuff I accidentally took with me. If you’re nearby, you can come by and pick it up; otherwise, I’m just leaving it on your step in the morning on my way to work.”

Eames is silent for a while. He lets this sink in.

“Eames?”

“...Just drop it off.”

“Okay.”

Eames breathes into the phone for a bit, eyes squeezed shut. Before he can overthink it, he asks, “How’s the boyfriend?”

Eames imagines the face Arthur makes. “Eames,” Arthur says.

“I’m just. Asking. I’m curious,” Eames mumbles. Even quieter, he says, “I care about you.”

Arthur sighs a little, lightly, into the phone, a crackle in Eames’s ears. “I dunno. We’re not---I mean. But yeah. I dunno. I really like him. He’s nice.” Eames can hear Arthur’s smile. “Well. I’ll see you.”

“See you,” Eames echoes. _Why him?_ he doesn’t say. _When will I hear from you again?_ he doesn’t say. _Do you miss me as much as I miss you?_ he doesn’t say.

Arthur hangs up. Eames lets the phone fall out of his hand.

...

Eames sits and stares at the clock, eyes half-closed, watching the second hand tick its way around the face, over and over until his vision blurs over, waiting for Arthur to call.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://queuebird.tumblr.com/)


End file.
